


Your Body's A Work Of Art

by makapedia



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, Tattoos, scruffy hipster Soul tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 07:26:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3561200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makapedia/pseuds/makapedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Body's A Work Of Art

Her weapon was stark naked and laying ass-up in her bed. She promptly dropped the bagged bagel she’d brought home for him and yelped. **  
**

He groaned and smothered his face further into her pillows. An old stuffed bunny rabbit — a gift from her mother, years ago, that she always forgot to kick off her bed when her weapon was around — merrily sat perched next to his thigh. His very, very bare thigh.

If she had any question whether or not she was really attracted to her partner, she didn’t anymore; he was catastrophically good looking, all (freshly) tanned skin and messy white hair. She hadn’t known she was tragically attracted to tattoos, either, but his arms were littered with them and she had to tear herself away from the sight to collect the fallen bagel.

She’d seen quite a few of his tattoos, of course, but usually only the ones that littered his forearms, the ones that all of their friends were also acquainted with. They were artsy-fartsy things, modern skulls (typical fare for Death City, which was probably why he’d gotten them; it was his home), scythes (obvious, again), a demon under his right elbow, the logo she’d stitched onto his old headband along his mid right forearm — all tattoos that she’d come to know and love. She’d only had the pleasure of hearing the stories behind half of them, but knew, somehow, that he’d gotten more.

He slept shirtless and she’d gotten eyefuls of a scarred chest and lean back plenty of times, but the ones along his shoulders and upper arms were more private, she knew, and ones that he didn’t share with just everyone. She knew the gothic-looking violin with the broken bow was for Wes, that he’d gotten a staff tattooed with the first few bars of the song he’d first played when they met to signify their partnership, but there were more, so many more that she didn’t know the meaning behind.

Maka stood in her own doorway and lingered, unsure; was she supposed to walk over and wake him up? She’d seen him in various states of undress before, but never completely bare. And never in her bed, coiled up in her sheets and oh, god, how was she ever going to lay there again without thinking about his scruffy cheek pressed up into her pillow?

Swallowing, she sat the bagel down on her desk and ambled over to him. His breathing evened out, and she wondered what the hell he and Black Star had done the night before. It was the last time she slept over Tsubaki’s and left the boys to roam free. It was dangerous — she had a naked hot man in her tiny twin bed and now her stuffed bunny had seen his genitals.

Genitals that were pressed into her comforter. She could die.

She attempted to gaze over him clinically, just to make sure that he hadn’t injured himself; she presumed he was drunk, because otherwise he’d never let himself be caught like this. Her eyes lingered too long on the delightful rise of his ass (he had such a nice butt!!) and she cleared her throat.

Soul groaned.

“Soul,” she said, trying very hard not to sound as aroused and uncomfortable as she felt.  She jabbed her finger into his ribs.

He jumped and squeaked; he rolled his torso over to face her and glowered, expression lazy and eyes droopy and sleepy. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and there was a sharp buzzing between her legs. She wondered what his scruff would feel like rubbing against her cheek.

She also wondered what it would feel like rubbing against her thighs. He licked his lips, and then she wondered what his tongue would feel like, too.

She forced a cleansing breath and sat up straighter. Ogling her weapon was a big no-no, especially since he’d make it clear in their youth that she wasn’t his type. For modesty reasons (and her own sanity) she tugged her throw blanket up and draped it over his behind.

“Get out of my room,” he groaned, lifting one hand to swat her away.

Her brow furrowed and she attempted to keep her eyes on his face and not on his bare shoulders. “This is not your room.”

“What.”

She pressed a hand to her forehead. How drunk had he gotten the night before? Her room looked nothing like his. Her walls had a distinct lack of band posters and sheet music plastered over them. Also motorcycles and girls posing on said motorcycles (a calander from Black*Star that he insisted meant nothing to him).

“Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”

The recognition and realization lit in his eyes. It was a brief, adorable moment of ‘oh, shit’ before his expression tightened and his cheeks pinked. He jolted back and attempted to futher cover himself. Her good deed was rewarded with a delighful view of his skin and treasure trail, the angular v of his waist and white hair, so much white hair; she forced her eyes back up and stared pointedly at his shoulder again.

On his right shoulder, right along the front and at the tip of muscle, she spied two music notes (quarter notes, she was pretty sure?) with angel wings for stems. It was delicate, almost feminine, and her heart skipped.

She’d never seen that one before. When had Soul gotten inked with angel wings?

His fingers jumped to cover the spot and it clicked — the wings were for her. That was his tattoo for her; she didn’t share a tattoo with their partnership, he’d gotten something on his body to signify her, too. Tiny little angel wings, delicate and beautiful stemming off of two music notes. Her weapon was sappy and she must’ve been sappy, too, because her heart roared and she slid his hand from the spot, maintained eye contact with him, leaned in and pressed her lips against the area.

His skin was molten beneath her mouth. His face was still lax from sleep and expressive. His mouth opened and she pressed her lips harder to the area. Her tongue grazed his skin, traced the rim of the wings and she felt him tremble and shudder beneath her.

The next breath she exalted was shaky. Her shoulders quivered and her panties felt tight and consticting, damp damp damp, and he moved a hand to graze his fingers over her lips. Her own hands sought out his cheek.

His stubble was delightful. The texture was rugged and messy, masculine and she wanted him to drag his face all over her body. She wanted him everywhere at once — but he could start with her mouth, please, and when she mumbled his name like a soft bird song, his eyes burnt wild and then his hands were in her hair, his mouth was on hers and she crushed herself against his bare chest.

He angled himself against her and she smiled against his mouth; his hands gripped lower, grabbed her hips and pressed her against him. He whispered incoherently against  the corner of her mouth. His voice was still rough from sleep and it rumbled within her, shook out eager trembles of her thighs. She didn’t know what he was saying but knew it must’ve been about her, and when she mewled his name again, he brushed his lips against the lobe of her ear and his stubble scratched against her cheek.

She was delighted. She wanted him to do it a thousand times.

“‘s for you,” he mumbled. The flames within her burned brighter, he slid his hand down and grazed along the flesh of her thigh and she groaned beneath him. “Got it when I turned twenty one. Do you like it?”

His fingers drew shapes into her skin. He nibbled along the shell of her ear and she forgot her entire vocabulary.

“Maka,” he moaned again. His voice was low, a tremor that was based in her core and roared whenever he opened his mouth. Her lashes fluttered and she whimpered when his fingers drew closer to glory.

She sobbed out a “ _Yes, god, yes_ ,” when his fingers slipped past her undergarments. The pink that burned across his face and along the ridge of his nose only served to further her along. She was wearing too many clothes and he was naked — gloriously naked, in her bed, and she almost asked him to pinch her just to make sure that she wasn’t dreaming.

He very well might have read her mind — he pinched her (lightly! gently!) in the best way and her shoulders lurched, her back curved and she sang his name. He watched her, red eyes glowing with a hint of pride and a lot of wonder.

“… I’ll remember that’s there,” he muttered, a nervous twitch of a grin curling and she pressed her fingers over his dimples. “ _Definitely_  will remember that’s there.”

“It has a name,” she breathed. Her head was buzzing and she was overstimulated, but bantering with him was her hobby, her greatest talent, and he laughed easily and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“Fun bud of nerves?” he grinned. Her hands slid around his jaw and her thumbs grazed along his skin, scruff and stubble rough beneath her smooth hands. “Fine.  _Clitoris._  Is that better?”

Her hands pushed through his hair and grasped at him; the pressure must’ve pleased him, because his head lobbed down and his mouth found the curve of her neck and he made himself at home, nibbling and nuzzling and kissing. When she felt his tongue against her skin and he slipped a single finger inside, her hips jolted and she tugged his hair.

He grunted out a declaration to her against her collarbone. He loved her, he loved her, she was beautiful and perfect and the tattoo was great but it didn’t even to her justice. When she whimpered out her own confession, that she’d loved him for years and that she wanted to get one to match his, he added another finger, curled his digits inside of her and she sobbed.

“More,” she whined. “More, use—  _your thumb_ , please—”

Soul Eater Evans, faithful weapon extraordinaire, pressed his thumb back against her clit and rubbed circles, and Maka very nearly screamed. It was too much, between the way he stared at her and his mouth pressing butterfly kisses to her shoulder, to the fingers (long, long, wonderful fingers) that worked her; he was learning her rapidly, watchful eyes taking quiet notes on her reactions and how she moved when he dragged his teeth down the center of her throat and mumbled her name against the beginning of her breast, right over her heart.

He grazed his cheek along hers, pivoted and pressed his mouth against hers to swallow her cries as she came. Her hands groped along his back, grabbed at his hips, dug her fingers into the flesh of his behind and crooned.

When her hips settled and the stars blurred, he kissed her eyes slowly and smiled against her cheek.

“… Guess I was scared for nothing. Thought you’d be offended or something by it,” he admitted.

Her hands were quite happy where they sat. She made no effort to move them away from his ass. She squeezed a little and giggled when his expression jumped and when his blush burned brighter. “I knew you thought I was an angel.”

“Don’t push it, Maka.”

She curled her hands around and pressed her thumbs against his hipbones; she was hyperaware of his nakedness and intended to do something about it. His lips pressed together and he swallowed nosily. She watched his Adam’s apple bob with perverse intensity.

“Push what?” she tittered innocently. “Why are you naked in my bed, Soul? Where are your skinny jeans and why aren’t they on my floor?”

He grunted. She slid her hands lower and combed through the line of hair that lead to his very, very eager erection. His hips budged and squirmed and she continued to graze along his skin with the ghost of a touch. His mouth opened and he watched her as she licked her lips slowly, pointedly.

“Why aren’t  _your_  clothes on the floor?”


End file.
